


Redact

by infiniteviking



Category: Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen, Retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:00:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteviking/pseuds/infiniteviking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alan's on the Grid instead of Sam, post-Disc Wars scene, you know the drill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Redact

**Author's Note:**

> Someday I might continue this, but I insist on waiting for the characters to tell me how the next scene goes, so I can't promise anything soon.

The program's grip is like iron on his arm, but he can feel the iron shaking.

Alan would be shaking too if he let himself. Blood's dripping hotly inside his sleeve; he can still feel the impact where Rinzler's knees hit him. He's too old for this, if he was ever young enough, and the armory programs took his glasses, and he doesn't know why he's still alive.

"I'm not a program," he snaps, daring the riveted crowd to make something of it. They don't, but he can feel Rinzler's tension grow.

Someone he hadn't noticed before, heavily robed and glowing with sullen yellow circuits, rises from a seat behind the red program who'd asked for his name. Alan's eyes narrow, trying to make out the details. " _Identify_ ," orders the new program, and there's intrigue in the distorted voice, a lazy curiosity like a cat waking to watch a bird hop across the deck.

He's trying to calculate why that feels more dangerous than his opponent's ticking growl and tight shaking grip when Rinzler hisses into his ear: " _Lie to him_."

At first Alan isn't sure he heard correctly; the low sound, like the whispered " _User_ " he'd uttered with when he'd seen Alan's blood, obviously isn't meant for anyone else's ears. But Rinzler jerks him closer, as though threatening his hesitation, and the near-inaudible word comes again. " _Lie_."

He shifts his shoulder slightly, trying to communicate agreement. The rumble quiets at his back. Even the stadium -- animals, how could they cheer a freakshow like this -- is largely silent.

He almost uses Sam's name. If he'd gone with his second instinct and waited long enough to _find_ the kid, there'd probably be someone else standing here now. But he can't really wish Sam had been the one to face Rinzler, and he's put enough together to be wary of saying _Flynn_ here.

"Richard Mackey," he calls upward, the contempt in his voice as much for the man whose name he's appropriating as it is for his captor. They probably deserve each other.

The yellow-circuited program seems to turn the name over, to taste its meaning as the Arena waits for his decision. Then he says curtly, " _Bring him to me_ ," and turns to step out of sight.

Rinzler marches him to a suddenly manifesting doorway as the ring descends dizzyingly into the Arena's floor. As they step through, there's a twist on his back and he realizes that his identity disc is in place again. He wonders why they'd let him have a weapon outside the ring, but even the sentries with their glowing pikes are shying out of Rinzler's path. They probably think it wouldn't make a difference. They're probably right.

They turn aside into a dim hall, and Alan's expecting an elevator or something, but Rinzler stops and there's a chilling flare as his discs activate. He spins Alan roughly, yanking him close as he tries to pull away. The discs, held to the User's throat, can hardly be told from a single unit.

Alan holds his breath. He'd really been hoping "bring him to me" hadn't been a euphemism for "kill him". But the discs' rims wink out again, though the narrow edge where they meld together still hovers close to his neck.

" _Who are you_?" the program growls, the filter in his helmet blurring the voice's maddening sense of familiarity.

Alan glowers with all the will he can muster. He won't be suckered into this world's sick power games. "Should I lie to you too?" 

The suggestion only agitates the program further. " _Tell me_ ," he snarls, but the muffled voice sounds more desperate than threatening. Alan can't shake the sense that this is somehow important in ways he doesn't yet know how to interpret.

He takes a breath, feeling cold as he answers.

"My name is Alan Bradley."

The program is so far up in his personal space he hasn't thought he could get any closer. He's wrong. The lean frame crushes him against the wall, both hands clenched in the grooves of his conscript armor, the helmet pressing against his collarbone. Alan tries to shove him off, but it's impossible; instead he's practically holding him up as the the white noise stutters.

He can make out only one word. " _Help_."

His mind reels, his expectations shattering again. "Who are you?" he says hoarsely, knowing that what he really means is _why_.

The helmet digs painfully into his shoulder and the program forces out words as if it's an effort to remember them from moment to moment.

" _I. I f-fight for the Users_ \--"

If _that_ isn't a straight line he's never heard one, but everything's different in here. There's barely enough breath in Alan to speak. There's just enough belief in him to ask anyway.

"Tron...?"

The helmet bobs, and then the hand with the double discs rakes down -- but only to force them into Alan's hands.

" _Hurry_ ," he rasps and then flings himself away, slamming his arms against the opposite wall as if he has to be attacking something to settle the conflicts in his code. Alan has no idea what to do. His legs are weak and he thinks he might slide down to the ground right there. But then he's looking at the red angry twin discs and he sees them in another color, sees them in a sketch, sees them two-dimensional in one of the sets of near-incomprehensible scribbles Flynn left on that hard drive he smuggled out of ENCOM years ago. And then he's on his knees with the interface open, a double image helixing in and out of itself, and he can _see_ it with a clarity that he knows has nothing to do with his eyes, can feel where one code ends and the other begins; the truncated remnants of the program that took down the MCP sift through his fingers and there's nothing else in the world but this.

He doesn't do a complete job. The guy with the yellow circuits will be wondering where they are in a moment or two. He gets rid of the cruel loops of code that force the program to acknowledge the admin's overrides, and splices back some functions that were cut off. That'll have to do. He bolts upright and two steps put him in arm's reach of his program. Tron's arms are still straining against the wall, but the black helmet whips back toward him with a snarl.

He doesn't hesitate. He locks the discs back into place.

Tron convulses, striking the hard surface in front of them. Alan heaves him away, past caring that the program is three times stronger than he is. The red circuits snap and flicker, and then they're brighter than before, white singed with remnants of yellow-red. A staggering moment later, Tron is standing under his own power and the four blazing squares at the base of his neck all but shout his identity in a sigil Alan is suddenly wishing he hadn't needed.

He locks a hand around Alan's wrist. Alan understands. Words later. Escape now.

The User looks him in the eye, or wherever the eyes are supposed to be, silently promising that the words will come.

Then, together, they run.  
_____


End file.
